Diary Trilogy
by M.E. Magnificent Entity
Summary: Combination of Shadow Dance, Dear Diary, and Dreaming My Dreams. Two pilots think about each other. threexfour
1. 1: Shadow Dance

Check it out! Angst with oddball comedy! . 

Okay, before I start, let me note that I've seen a total of 13 (count 'em, 13) episodes of Gundam Wing, in addition to EW (oh! the pain of not having cable and being to poor to buy videos). Please don't hurt me if you notice any plot discrepancies (in fact, please let me know so that I can fix them!). 

Gundam Wing and all its little characters do not belong to me, I just borrow them for torture sessions every now and then. Once upon a time, yea many moons ago, this was a songfic to the song "Pretty Boy" is from M2M's CD, Shades of Purple, but lyrics have since been removed in accordance with Freakiness. I blame this all on my friend Blue Jeans, who not only lent me the CD (even though it's not hers...) but also suggested that it be made into a 3+4 songfic. Her fault. Not mine. Hers. 

Warnings: shonen ai, 3+4, TWT. Beware mixed metaphors. 

**Shadow Dance**  
By: M.E. (Magnificent Entity) 

Shadows danced on the walls, creating dramatic images through a delicate play of the leaved branches outside the window and the moonlight that shined down from above. Though the plays consisted of comedies and romances, it seemed that the only ones that Trowa could interpret easily were the tragedies. 

He wished desperately for sleep to overtake him, but it seemed be yet another useless hope in light of the the troubled thoughts that bubbled up in his skull even as he willed them to stop. 

Around him the shadows continued their twirling waltzes in black and white, grays ranging in between, ignorant of the heavy atmosphere that surrounded him. 

His mind was not distracted by the antics of the shadows for long, and it soon returned to dwell on that which he tried so hard to suppress. Images moved past his staring eyes in a fluid motion, momentary glimpses catching his attention as they passed. One stilled his heart even as it approached, and he strained to watch it after it was gone. 

Deep, blue-green eyes. Tranquil pools of aquamarine. 

God. He could drown in those eyes- had done so on more than one occasion. When he was around them and their clear, comforting gaze, he seemed to go numb to surroundings, becoming blind to anything but those two eyes. 

And yet... even though the Heavyarms pilot felt like a the mouse caught between the claws of a cat whenever those eyes looked in his direction, he couldn't help but hope for the next time they would turn to him. It was as if he was addicted to some kind of drug, one that, even though it was slowly destroying him from the inside out, he couldn't help but continue to seek over and over again. 

He had tried over and over again to stop the dangerous game that he had started so many months ago, but found himself to deeply submerged in it. Escape was no longer an option, and so he let himself be caught up in the rapids around him, the current tearing away all remaining restrictions, leaving him free to tumble towards his own ruin. 

It was quite obvious that this was no simple crush. 

At first he had hesitated to put a name to the destructive whirlwind that had taken him by force, even though he had known from the very beginning what it really was. 

Now that he knew there was no escape, he allowed his mind to name that which plagued him day and night, obstructing his sleep and causing him to wander around like a zombie during the day. That which had carved the deep purple bruises of sleep-deprivation under his own tired eyes. 

It was love. 

He had never experienced such an emotion before, he was sure of that, as he was totally unfamiliar with the paths and patterns that even now it was carving in his mind. Love... 

For some reason this thought disturbed him. Not because he felt that his love should be given some more deserving recipient- oh no, he knew that the object of his affections truly deserved them. And it wasn't that he was afraid that Quatre would be turned away if he voiced such feelings. 

No, the reason that Trowa was bothered by the thought of love was that he was afraid of pulling the other boy into a relationship, afraid that Quatre might not want it as much as he himself did. 

Even as he drowned in his own emotions, he continued to hold onto the small hope that his affections, his love (even now he continued to hesitate at the use of that word) might be returned. As soon as he was sure of that they would be, he would not waver any longer in expressing his feelings. 

He just wanted to make sure that he didn't trap the blonde pilot in a cage. 

Trowa knew only too well the ins and outs of Quatre's personality, knew that if he told the him how he felt, the Arabian would most likely feel obligated to enter a relationship with him, not so much because he returned Trowa's love, but rather because he didn't want to hurt the taller boy's feelings. 

The blonde's unconditional kindness had been one of the many things that had first attracted (and later held) Trowa's attention. Having grown up in an atmosphere of hardship, where the only real emotions that existed was more of a deep feeling of respect that might be felt between fellow warriors, Trowa was amazed by the wide range of feelings and emotions that Quatre quickly introduced him to. 

At the moment, he couldn't help but wish that one of those feelings had not been sadness. 

No, his decision to not be the one to make the first move had been a good one. Even if it meant waiting forever for some kind of response from Quatre, he was determined not to force the other boy into a relationship. 

But forever was such a long time... 

In the darkness of his room, Trowa felt his cheeks become hot and turn a bright pink as one of the images that still plagued his thoughts reminded him of something that had happened in class only a few hours before. 

The teacher had been lecturing on the wonders of western Europe, and Trowa, bored out of his mind had been doodling on his hand and arm with his pen. When the bell had finally rung, he had been jolted out of his reverie to find that he had somehow managed to to cover almost all of the skin from the tips of fingers to the crook of his arm, and there, right smack in the middle of the back of his hand, was a large red heart (that was strange- he didn't even remember getting his red pen out) framing the numbers "04." 

He had quickly shoved the long sleeve of his shirt down, which covered most of the drawings, but left the heart right out in the open for all to see. Even though he had been fast to grab his jacket in an effort to hide it, it was apparent from the strange look that Quatre gave him that he hadn't been fast enough. Trowa had shrugged off the look, and hurried out the door of the class to the nearest bathroom. 

It had taken ten minutes, two handfuls of soap, seven paper towels, and God-knows how much water to get that damned heart off. 

Sighing, Trowa rolled over, wincing as the mattress squeaked protests and complaints beneath him. His sleep-deprived mind was playing tricks on him again- he thought he could hear the soft sound of Quatre's voice, and the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing. 

Most likely it was coming from the room next to his, his mind amended, and he pulled the pillow over his head, willing the ghostly noises of the phantoms in his head to stop, to let him rest in peace. As he lay there, pillow clamped over his ears, his breathing steadied and evened out. For the first time in days, Trowa Barton slept. 

In his dreams he was haunted by the likeness of a pale young man with light blonde hair and shining blue eyes. Oddly enough, the presence of this other was not harrying as it had been the last few times Trowa had managed to catch a few z's. Instead, the other was comforting, and seemed to whisper elusive promises into his covered ears. 

In the shadows of his room, Trowa's mouth curved into a smile. 

So caught up in the creations of his dreaming mind, Trowa was unaware of the soft padding of footsteps in the hall outside his door, and the small book that was slid under his door. 

That was okay, he could see it in the morning. 


	2. 2: Dear Diary

Hey, look what I found::holds up a pouty little chibi of herself: My muse::mutters: Actually I didn't even know that I had a muse until a couple days ago. Damn thing bit me when I was looking for more paper for the printer. :curious look: Strange that I (the angst fanatic) should have a seven-year-old incarnation of myself for a muse. :pokes muse: I wonder if it squeaks when you squeeze it, like those doggie chew toys do... 

This is the sequel (parallel fic?) to "Shadow Dance," and should make all you sap fans happy (evilness! sap!). Gundam Wing and all its little people do not (unfortunately) belong to me. I just borrow them to create mayhem and madness . This was originally a songfic to the song "Dear Diary" from the M2M CD Shades of Purple, but the lyrics have been removed in accordance to Freakiness. Be warned of plot inconsistencies between this and the series. I've only seen 13 episodes and EW, pity, not anger, is what I deserve. :muse whines: Shut up. I'm still not done getting back at you for trying to bite my finger off. 

Warnings: shonen ai, 3+4, TWT 

**Dear Diary**  
By: M.E. (Magnificent Entity) 

Running his hand through his hair, Quatre tapped his pen lightly against his lips, trying to concentrate. He was someone accustomed to routines, and part of his daily routine was- had been, for several years now- writing in his journal right before he went to bed. Usually when he sat down the words started to pour out of his mind and onto the blank page in the book in front of him. He would start out a brief sketch of what had happened during the day, then summarize his current thoughts and feelings. 

At least, that was what he usually did. Today, however, was different, because he was having a hard time sorting out the emotions that had plagued him ever since late that afternoon. A slow smile spread across his face as he remembered the event that had called into being his current confused state of mind. As he thought about it his eyelids drooped, causing his face to take on a dreamy, half-awake look. 

He fondly recalled the way it had sounded when the other pilot had first said his name, playing it back to himself over and over again in his mind. Even though he had only just met the other boy, he was already being affected by the other's actions in the strangest ways. Sighing, he decided that it would be best to keep today's entry short, or else he might end up going on and on for pages about that one event. Leaning forward, he put pen to paper and began to write. 

–––   
Absentmindedly rubbing a thumb across the palm of his hand, Quatre pondered the predicament that he had found himself in. It had been two months since he'd last seen Trowa, and yet he was still unable to keep the other boy out of his thoughts. 

While Trowa avoided most people, Quatre had noticed early on the slim pilot's affinity for animals. At the last school they had both attended, he had discovered Trowa in the biology lab one day after class, and it had seemed that the other boy was almost in silent communion with the scaly, slithery, and furry beasts that inhabited the cages around him. 

As he had watched Trowa from the doorway, his presence still undetected, Quatre was surprised to see him sit down at one of the lab tables, burying his head in his arms, almost as if he was weeping. Disturbed, Quatre had entered the room, placing a hand on Trowa's should and voicing his concern. 

The brunette had sat up suddenly, surprised by Quatre's touch, then had slowly relaxed when he saw who it was. 

Was it just his imagination, or had Quatre seen in the other pilot's eyes the same feelings that had been troubling him for the past few months...? 

No, now that he thought about it and considered other evidence that he'd collected, Quatre was almost positive that Trowa felt the same way about him. But why hadn't the Heavyarms pilot said anything- was he shy? Trowa wasn't one to use a lot of words during the best of times, and Quatre had decided a while ago that the only way he'd ever get him to open up to him would be through the careful application of several alcoholic drinks, and even then, knowing his luck, Trowa would probably turn out to be a sleepy drunk. 

Since it was clear that Trowa wasn't going to be the one to make the first move, it was obviously up to him, Quatre, to do so. But, for some reason, he hesitated to take any action, despite the fact that his whole body was screaming at him to tell the other pilot how he felt. 

––– 

Bouncing on his bed, Quatre chuckled to himself as he remembered what had happened earlier in the day. Who would have known that Trowa, stoic, I-speak-in-dot-language Trowa, would be a doodler? Quatre, who had been engrossed by the teacher's lecture- obviously the woman was passionate about that day's subject- hadn't noticed until about five minutes before the bell rang that Trowa had managed to, during the span of a fifty minute period, cover his arm with an intricate pattern of geometric and organic shapes, from elbow to finger tips. 

Walking up next to the other boy at the end of the class, Quatre was surprised to see what Trowa had drawn on the back of his hand. Gothic type stared back at him like black, staring eyes, from the middle of a large, red heart. The blonde's own heart had nearly skipped a beat when he caught a glimpse of what the letters said right before the taller boy had grabbed his jacket and rushed out of the room. The numbers "04" had been very clear. 

Well, if he hadn't be sure about how Trowa felt about him before, he was now. However, he still didn't know what to do about the situation, which frustrated him to no end. Glancing at the slim, cloth-covered book resting on the desk across the room from him, then down at the overflowing book bag beside him, Quatre tried to decide whether it would be okay to write in his journal now and put off his homework for a few minutes longer. 

Giving his head a sharp nod to indicate his decision, he crossed the room and sat down at the desk, drawing the journal to himself. He couldn't wait to record what had happened today, and was pretty sure that it would be a big problem if he put off the essay that he had to do for history a few minutes longer. 

The blonde Arabian grimaced at the thought of the essay. Ms Binz was a great teacher, but man, the homework load... 

Leaning back in his chair, pen grasped between his clenched teeth, Quatre examined the words that he'd written. Sure, it was one in the morning, but he was proud of it- it had to be one of the best essays he had done, and, basking in the glow of accomplished schoolwork, he could easily forget the personal problems that had been plaguing him for some time now, as well as the gnawing responsibilities that came with being a Gundam pilot. Yup, he felt good. 

Lulling in his pride, his mind, finally eased into peace, settled down and began to work regularly once again, something that it had not done for nearly five months. In this state of utter relaxation, his mind carefully massaged itself, working out the knots and kinks that had been confusing him for months. As his mind unwound itself, Quatre became more and more at ease. 

Suddenly, Quatre sat bolt upright, his eyes gleaming, no longer full of sleepiness. He knew what to do about his problem. 

Catching up his journal from its resting place on his desk, Quatre quietly opened the door to his room, and entered the hall. Footsteps falling silently on the thickly carpeted floor, he made his way down the hall, to the door of Trowa's room. The blonde hesitated a moment, then steeled himself. He had decided to do this, and he wasn't going to stop now. 

Leaning over, he carefully slid the slim book under the door. Giving it one last glance, he straightened, turned, and made his way back to his room. 

In the morning Trowa would find the book. Once he'd read it, he would know exactly how Quatre felt. If he still didn't say anything... well, Quatre would have to get his journal back anyway, and they would be able to talk then. 

He felt happier then he had in months. 


	3. 3: Dreaming My Dreams

M.E.: I'm sorry to say that my muse will not be joining us today, as she has been scared off by 'Zel-chan. 

Rapunzel: I'm not taking **any** chances with you. 

M.E.: I made the mistake of buying her off with the promise of a sappy (shudder) sequel to "Dear Diary." She won't even let me kill anyone off... 

Rapunzel: Damn straight! 

M.E.: (long suffering sigh) Title is from the song of the same name from the Cranberries CD "No Need to Argue" (lyrics removed to conform with funkiness). Gundam Wing and all it's little characters don't belong to me (sadness). Warnings include shounen ai (3+4), sap written by an angst author, what 'Zel-chan calls "T?WT," various references to stuff you might have learned about in school (the result of me writing parts of it while at said institution), and maybe some good old fashioned oddball comedy . 

**Dreaming My Dreams**   
By: M.E. (Magnificent Entity) 

It was an enigma, he decided, tasting the word as his mind produced it, rolling it around on his tongue. Yes, that was what it was, an enigma. A puzzle, a question, confusion, unknown. 

It was still there when he checked again a few minutes later. Lying innocently next to the door on the dark blue-gray carpet was the book, resting in the exact same position and place it had been in when he'd first awakened. It was not a large book, perhaps no more than half an inch thick; the width being somewhere around five inches, while the height was about eight inches. Leatherbound, it appeared to be a journal of some type. 

There was no doubt in Trowa's mind as to who it belonged to. This was not the first time he'd seen the journal, had in fact seen it months before. Trowa knew whose it was- he should, since he'd watched Quatre carry it around just about everywhere. 

No, the enigma was not one of ownership, but rather of reason. Why was Quatre's journal sitting on his floor, looking exactly as if someone had shoved it under the door? 

Sighing, the slender pilot leaned over and picked the book up. In this situation there was only one thing to do. 

––– 

Walking down the hall to his first period class, Trowa let his mind continue to dwell on the thing volume tucked between his history and math notebooks inside the school bag that slapped against his leg. His thoughts kept going in a loop, coming back time and time again to a single question: Why had Quatre's journal been in his room? 

The same mind had already come up with several answers, the most logical being that someone had found it, and, unable to find Quatre, had returned it to Trowa instead, knowing that the two boys were friends. 

Trowa's heart, on the other hand, came up with a more complicated answer, one that the pilot could only wish was true. Maybe, that hopeful organ hypothesized, maybe Quatre wants you to read it and find out how he feels about you. As he turned the corner and entered his trigonometry class, Trowa brushed this comment away, dismissing it as not only improbable but also impossible. What could Quatre, the angelic pilot of Sandrock, see in him- a clown who wasn't even funny? 

––– 

Sliding into his seat, Trowa sighed. He would return the journal to Quatre at the end of this period, and then the enigma would be over most likely, and he could go back to admiring the blonde from a distance. 

He barely noticed as the teacher started in on the day's lecture about the number e, and even managed to ignore the ramblings of the two talkative boys seated in front of him (today they were discussing the band that they were going to start, while wondering how they could get the drummer to wear a monkey suit). Across the room Quatre had his entire body focused on what the teacher was saying, and Trowa felt that he could almost see the blonde consume every word of the lecture. 

He himself needed no such sustenance- feeding instead on the actions, voice, and very vitality of the Arabian pilot. Obsessed, much? he asked himself with a soft snort. God, he wondered if he appeared as desperate to other people as he did to himself sometimes. He would have to watch himself carefully, or else he might end up becoming like Relena, forever chasing after an impossible dream, even after it had turned elsewhere. 

Another half-laugh escaped his lips. He couldn't imagine himself stalking Quatre and begging the other boy to come and kill him already. 

––– 

The teacher had finished his lecture, and around Trowa the other students were pulling out their textbooks, starting on the day's homework. Somehow the soft sounds of pages flipping and calculator keys being tapped brought him out of his internal reverie. Blinking behind his bangs, he reluctantly opened his book and began to work. 

A few minutes later he found himself staring at his paper, trying to figure out what ln x3 meant. Rubbing his eyes, he sighed. It was a lost cause- he would never be able to get any work done before the class ended. 

Only Quatre had the power to distract him to such an extent. 

The bell rang, and Trowa silently rose from his seat, making his way towards Quatre and the door. Brushing against the blonde, he handed him the journal. "Here," he said, "someone left this in my room last night." Without waiting for an answer, he waded through the sea of students, leaving Quatre to stand alone in the crowd. 

––– 

Walking to his next class, journal clasped tight against his chest, Quatre tried hard not to let the pain that coursed through his entire body show. He had been so sure of how Trowa felt, had carefully analyzed the actions of the other pilot before taking this first, small step. 

He passed the next period in a state of shock, his body and mind numb to his surroundings. When the teacher called on him to answer a question, he stared at her blankly, not really seeing. 

The Arabian pilot hadn't realized what Trowa meant to him until he'd faced the possibility of total rejection. Now that he saw them clearly, his passionate feelings scared him almost as much as the dead look he was sure he had seen in Trowa's eyes. 

By lunch he was a total wreck. 

––– 

While there had been great advances in technology since Quatre's great-great-great grandfathers had gone to school, it seemed that these advancements had never been applied to the experience widely known as "school lunch." As the Sandrock pilot stared down at the sludge on his plastic tray, he had the strange feeling that it was staring back at him. 

The most unnerving thing was that the menu listed today's meal as pepperoni pizza. Quatre shuddered in recollection of "Mystery Meat Monday." 

He started, glancing up in a panic, as Trowa slid in to sit next to him on the bench. The brown haired boy greeted him with a soft smile, then turned his attention to the gray mass on his own tray. Poor Trowa had decided to brave the vegetarian alternative. 

Hesitating slightly, Quatre decided to chance an attempt at reviving the shattered remains of his hope. "Trowa..." 

"Yes?" 

"Why... why did you give me back my journal?" 

The taller pilot looked down at his lunch, his bangs hiding his facial expression. "It's yours... right?" 

––– 

Studying his food (it was veggie lasagna- or so the the menu claimed), Trowa cursed to himself silently. He was an idiot- he had never thought to look inside the book to check and make sure that Quatre was indeed the owner. He hadn't wanted to intrude on the blonde's privacy, and so had never even opened the journal. Tentatively, he asked, "It's yours... right?" 

Smiling shakily, the Arabian nodded, "Yes, it's mine. It's just that... well, I thought you..." He trailed off as a group of jabbering girls sat down across from them at the table. Glancing at them nervously, he shrugged, and stood up. "Can I talk to you after school today, Trowa? It's... important." 

"Sure." The brown-haired boy watched as Quatre left, wondering what was on the other's mind. His had automatically carried food from his tray to his mouth as his mind an heart did cartwheels, somersaults, and triple back flips, elated by the thought of spending extra time with Quatre outside of school and missions. 

Across from him, one girl leaned her head against another's chest, using her friend's breasts as a headrest. She purred contentedly as her "pillow" scratched her back. For a moment, Trowa's eyes met with those of the victim. She smiled wanly, shrugged, and went back to scolding the purring girl. 

Trowa gathered up his now-empty tray and left quickly, having decided that the world had become a strange and scary place. Somewhere deep inside, however, he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever get to show that level of affection with Quatre. 

––– 

Weary and alone, Trowa stumbled out of the school's large double doors. At the moment his worn-out brain was trying to figure out why the idea of signing up for all AP and honors classes had been so appealing the month before. Between insomnia the night before, general tension as a result of the strange appearance of Quatre's journal in his room, and the school lunch, Trowa was amazed that his brain was still functioning. If it hadn't been for the prospect of seeing Quatre after school, he was pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to make it through the entire day. 

Quatre was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, reading a book in the shade of a large oak tree. Glancing up, the blonde smiled when he saw the other pilot approaching. Carefully stowing his book away in the backpack slung across one shoulder, he fell into step next to Trowa. "I really appreciate you doing this," Quatre babbled happily to his silent friend, "we really haven't gotten to talk to each other alone since being posted here last month." 

The Arabian rambled on as they walked, talking about whatever came to mind- the weather, school, missions, music, Mystery Meat Mondays... Slowly relaxing, Trowa let his mind wander, content with just listening to the other boy's voice. 

––– 

"Quatre... what was it you wanted to talk to me about?" They were in a small public playground, having arrived after wandering for around fifteen minutes. Trowa hadn't really wanted to force Quatre to a point, but he felt that it would be better if they brought whatever had been on the blonde's mind out into the open, and ceased this constant avoidance of the subject. 

Silence fell, and for a few minutes, Quatre just swayed back and forth in the swing that he had claimed. He asked, hopefully, "Um... haven't we been talking?" 

The taller pilot shook his head "no," and the other boy slumped slightly, a look on his face comparable to that of a small child who has been caught with his hands in the sugar bowl. Watching the guilty look on his friend's face, Trowa couldn't help but think how adorable he looked. 

Sighing, Quatre pumped harder, letting the swing take him higher. "Well, part of it's about my journal..." Trowa lifted an eyebrow- that didn't surprise him. "And part of it's about you..." Some startlement there, but not much- again, it didn't seem surprising that Quatre might want to talk about him. "And part of it's about... well... us, I guess." Now that Trowa had not been expecting. Us? he thought, confused. Is there an "Us"? As far as Trowa knew, there wasn't. There was him, and there was Quatre, and they were friends and partners-in-arms, but... "us"? 

On the swing next to him, Quatre continued to pump back and forth, channeling his energy and frustration into his legs, seemingly determined to get as high as he possibly could. 

––– 

It wasn't that he was exactly trying to avoid the subject, Quatre told himself, it was just that this wasn't something he really knew how to approach. He had tried the indirect method by leaving his journal in Trowa's room, knowing that any normal person would have it open within seconds to see what they could find out (one didn't grow up in a house with thirty older sisters without learning a few things about human nature along the way)- but the silent clown wasn't any normal person, he was Trowa. Wonderful silent Trowa, whose leaf-green eyes were windows to the soul of a sensitive boy; beautiful Trowa with his graceful long limbs... 

It astounded Quatre that it had taken until this morning to realize that he was in love with the other pilot, and that the fluttery feeling in his chest was not that of a passing infatuation. Well damn, thought Quatre, what's the point in having an uchuu no kokoro if it doesn't let you know that you're in love with your partner? There just didn't seem to be any sense in that. 

Thinking hard, he began to speak. "...I know how my diary got into your room, Trowa." I can do this, he reassured himself, it's not as if he's going to reject me- I know he won't. But still, in the back of the blonde's mind, the fear of being turned away continued to lurk. "I... I put there." 

Trowa blinked, wide-eyed. He stared at the slight pilot on the swing, looking for the world as if this scenario had never occurred to him. Slowly, he turned to look into the eyes of the other boy, somehow able to follow them as they swayed back and forth with the swing. It seemed to Quatre that they were asking him "why?" 

––– 

"I guess... I guess I'm not really that good at words," he continued, trying hard to not break away from the scrutiny of Trowa's gaze. "I feel like a coward now, but... Funny, isn't it, that someone who is able to slice down mobile suits with ease is afraid to tell someone how he feels." A sharp intake of breath from Trowa's direction. There, it was out in the open, now, he just had to explain himself. 

How? 

Blinking, he turned his eyes away from Trowa's, unable to watch them as he said what had to follow. 

"I guess, some people might argue that it was love at first sight... but it wasn't, not really. Love at first sight is like a joke to me," Quatre went on, knowing that he was rambling, not really caring, "how can you fall in love with someone who you've only just met, just seen? I think that that kind of love is superficial more than anything else, lust really." He had allowed the swing to slow down, and was now dragging his feet in the sand, for once not caring if he got any sand in his shoes. Finally, he stopped the swing completely, and turned to look at the other pilot again. 

"It's not like that with you Trowa. Really, it's not. It goes so much deeper than anything spur of the moment. I wasn't sure at first- I mean, you were gorgeous and all, and you're voice could take my breath away, but I didn't really know you. It was just a crush then." 

Quatre's face seemed light up like a light bulb, and he quietly whispered, "I didn't really know until this morning, but... It's not a crush anymore, Trowa, it's something much more than that. Much, much more." Staring into the taller pilot's deep green eyes, he searched for some sign of acceptance. If Trowa needed some time to adjust, that was okay, but he had gone so far at this point that he hesitated from waiting much longer. 

––– 

Brain freeze. That was the only way Trowa could describe what had just happened to his mind. It had become totally numb, incapable of thought, the result of an information overload. He stared off into space as the gears of his mind slowly unstuck themselves and began moving again. So... Quatre had been watching him, too? Watching him in hopes of some sign of a mutual attraction. And he, like an idiot, had carefully tried to hide all signs of his feelings because he didn't "want to force Quatre into anything." There was another term for the entire thing, one that his biology teacher was fond of- brain fart. 

He watched Quatre's blue-green eyes, still trying to comprehend what had just happened. If Quatre felt something that was "much, much more" than a crush towards him, could it be... love...? 

He felt dizzy again, and, for what seemed like the first time in his life, elated and giddy. The angelic blonde (maybe, possibly, probably) loved him! Him, Trowa, Nanashi, clown, pilot, mercenary, mechanic, student... boy... 

And, like an idiot, he didn't know what to say. 

––– 

Shaking slightly, he stepped behind Quatre's swing, and, when the other pilot came near again, pushed him. In the swing, Quatre relaxed, stopping the furious motions of his legs, no longer worried about keeping himself swinging. Stuttering and talking barely above a whisper (he was amazed that Quatre could hear him), Trowa spoke. "I- I think that I- may- might- no-." After pausing to sort out the confusion in his head, waiting a moment to let his centers of speech thaw out, Trowa tried again. "I know that I like you..." Groping for words, too nervous to say the word "love," he grasped at the words that Quatre had used a few minutes before, "...much, much more than a crush." 

Swinging away from him, Quatre laughed lightheartedly, a soft, tinkling laugh that charged Trowa's spirit, causing him to smile. 

If his back had not been towards the other boy and Quatre had been able to see the smile, he would have said that it was beautiful. 

––– 

Quatre swung back into Trowa's reach again, and this time, instead of pushing the blonde away, he hugged him close, bringing the swing to a halt, burying his face in the other's hair. For a moment Quatre froze stiff, and Trowa almost let go, scared that he had been too presumptuous. But the Arabian quickly recovered from his shock, and leaned back against Trowa's chest, snuggling as his hands let go of the swing's chains and he surrendered to the encompassing embrace of his clown. 

Something wet hit his face, and, fearing that rain was about spoil this wonderful moment, Quatre opened his eyes and looked up at Trowa's face. Tears were streaming down the other's face, and a worried expression passed over Quatre's face. Touching the tears with his slim fingertips, he frowned. "You okay," he breathed. 

Trowa nodded enthusiastically, hugging Quatre closer, hoping that through his actions he would be able to express those feelings that he was unable to put into words. 

Smiling, Quatre sighed, and leaned his head against Trowa's chest again, content with just standing there in his love's embrace. 

––– 

It did rain, eventually, and both boys were soaked to the skin before they made it back to the dorms, where, laughing, they collapsed in a heap in Quatre's room, falling asleep in a tangle on the floor as soon as the door shut behind them. 

And, together, they dreamed the same dreams. 

--- 

M.E.: I would like to note at this time that the students mentioned in this fic exist. Their appearance is the result of me writing parts of this while at school. Specifically during trig class... Also, both Rapunzel and myself would like to say once and for all that what was going on between the purring girl and her pillow was **not** what Trowa thought was going on. 

Rapunzel: We personally know both girls and would not wish to have people think that they're in a relationship when they're really not. They're just good friends, and the purring one has no sense of decency, that's all. 

M.E.: Really. :Wanders off to eat the three double chocolate brownies that 'Zel-chan gave her as payment for finishing this fic.: 

Rapunzel: All comments and criticism are welcomed- this is one of M.E.'s rare attempts to write sap, and she doesn't think that she did a good job. 

M.E. (in background): SAP! EVIL! Now, to go write a good angsty suicide fic... That should make me feel better... 

Rapunzel: Don't worry, we're trying to get her to seek help. 


End file.
